


Still of the Night

by SoonerOrLater



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hounds of Baskerville, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Post-HoB, post episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:57:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoonerOrLater/pseuds/SoonerOrLater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short post-ep for Hounds of Baskerville, John and Sherlock talk a bit and deal with the fallout of the past few days, while Sherlock worries about the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still of the Night

Sherlock paced the length of the room, which was made difficult by the minute size of the room and the amount of furniture in it, for the third time he tripped over the leg of the fake-antique coffee table and this time went sprawling into it. He heard the wood crunch under him as he hit the floor and yelled out in pain as it dug into his side.

‘Sherlock!’ John exclaimed arriving back to the room just in time to see six feet of Holmes barrelling towards the floor followed by a sickening crunch that he hoped was wood from the admittedly awful coffee table. John threw down the contents of his arms onto the nearest bed and went to Sherlock’s aid.

Sherlock looked up and blinked slowly at John.

‘Alright?’ he asked bending over Sherlock and pulling him up with by his shoulders. Sherlock groaned and muttered something about poor design tastes and doing nothing for stereotypes. John retrieved the leg of the table from under Sherlock and did his best to push the rest of it out of the way.

‘Well that’s knackered.’ He declared ‘Not that they’ll think of charging us for it after what’s happened.’

Sherlock huffed again and pulled himself up using the bed next to him, there really wasn’t room to swing a cat in the room, or more appropriately a dog he mused. He sat down hard on the bed and raked a hand through his hair while John gave the remains of the coffee table a last kick and looked at him expectantly. Sherlock looked back blankly.

‘Alright?’ John asked brow furrowed in concern.

‘I only fell over a coffee table.’ Sherlock said impatiently ‘You’ve seen me do worse.’

John snorted, probably remembering one or two of Sherlock’s memorable falls over something-and nothing- in their flat, he  looked graceful with his long limbs but they often got the better of or got away from him.

John’s face became serious again ‘Not that.’ He said gesturing towards the former table, ‘I meant generally, you know after…’ he gestured vaguely at the window meaning the moors beyond.

‘Fine.’ Sherlock said a little too quickly ‘Why wouldn’t I be fine?’

‘Well.’ John said slowly ‘You have been a little…’ he searched for the words that wouldn’t send Sherlock flying into a manic diatribe or clam him up completely, none came to mind ‘Well it’s been a long few days is all.’

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in response and flopped backwards onto the bed.

‘Fine have it your way.’ John said moving back to the other bed ‘But if you wake up screaming after dreams of luminous rabbits don’t expect any sympathy from me.’

Sherlock actually snorted with laughter at that, but then abruptly stopped and sat up again. ‘Are you alright?’ he said with some urgency frowning at John.

John squared his shoulders a little, ‘Fine’ he said

‘Are you certain?’ Sherlock asked still frowning

‘Fine, Sherlock.’ John insisted then softened a bit ‘Look whatever I saw I didn’t really see, so it’s fine.’

Sherlock nodded seeming satisfied and began to unlace his shoes and John moved back to his bed and picked up the bottle of scotch.

‘Still a drink wouldn’t hurt eh?’ he said ‘Sherlock?’

Sherlock glanced over at him and half smiled  ‘Please.’ He said kicking his shoes towards the wall, a distance of about six inches. ‘This room.’ He declared taking the glass John offered ‘Is ridiculous.’

‘You’re lucky.’ John said pouring them each a healthy measure ‘They wanted to give us a double’

‘Why?’ Sherlock asked taking the glass and nodding his thanks

‘Because…’ John searched for a way to express ‘because everybody thinks we’re a bloody couple and I’m sick of correcting them’ in a way Sherlock would understand ‘Because they thought we were on holiday.’ He tried ‘Together’

‘So?’ Sherlock said glancing around for somewhere to put it. Realising the coffee table on his side of the room was no longer of use he pushed himself back on the bed and nursed the drink in his lap leaning against the wall. John mirrored him on the twin beds that were actually close enough to virtually be a double anyway.

‘So they thought’ John gestured with his glass, at the space between them, unsure at exactly what.

‘Ah’ Sherlock said slowly, somewhat absently his mind as usual elsewhere. ‘Does it matter?’

John looked over at Sherlock who was now staring at his own drink lost in thought once more-about the case maybe or who knew what else. There was still a dark edge to his demeanour that troubled John, something not quite right. He’d been so angry at him over the past two days but that had vaporised at the hint of danger towards him, it didn’t mean it wouldn’t rise again but it also showed him it wasn’t really that important, not in the bigger picture-at least when the bigger picture included mythical hounds and landmines.

‘Not really.’ John said realising that it didn’t-if he couldn’t define who Sherlock was-his friend, colleague, flatmate-none of these seem sufficient anyway-did it really matter then that nobody else could get it right? Idiots John thought hearing Sherlock’s voice in his head and smiling.

They were quiet for a moment and Sherlock was beginning to think John had fallen asleep upright, drink in hand-he’d found him that way a couple of times in Baker Street and was always astounded at his ability to fall asleep anywhere and remain almost motionless. ‘Army training’ John had explained when questioned afterwards-Sherlock never woke him unless he needed to or John looked particularly uncomfortable, usually he covered him with a blanket and tried to fend off boredom with less noxious experiments or reading, not that Sherlock would admit to an inclination to considering John’s comfort above his own.

Sherlock glanced over and saw John was staring contemplatively into his glass.

‘You’ve seen it before haven’t you.’ He said.

John looked up and frowned slightly at Sherlock who was regarding him with one of his piercing stares.  He left the question ‘what?’ silent, having a pretty good idea what Sherlock was asking him.

‘A man…killed like. Blown up.’ Sherlock stumbled over the words slightly, realising the shock was still present in his voice. A raw night all around it seemed.

John pursed his lips and looked into his glass. ‘Too many times.’

‘How many is too many?’ Sherlock spoke before his brain caught up, a sure sign he was tired.

‘Well one is too many Sherlock.’ John said but his tone was gentle appreciating both what he’d meant and now that he looked at him, taking in just how tired he also seemed. ‘Four’ he replied after a pause.

Sherlock nodded and waited for John to continue.

‘Two were civilians.’ He said staring into his drink, ‘One from quite far off, one within metres of where we were. It is the most helpless feeling in the world-with gunfire or shells there’s at least some warning, with something like that…’ he trailed off staring into his drink ‘Those days I genuinely questioned what I was doing there.’

‘You were helping people.’ Sherlock offered, downing the remains of his drink ‘It’s what you do.’

John shrugged and drank the last of his own drink, ‘The other two were soldiers. Just out on patrol and…’ John gestured with his empty glass.

‘You were friends with one of them.’ Sherlock noted

John didn’t bother to ask how he knew, simply nodded ‘Sullivan.  Been in the army almost as long as I had, lots of mutual friends, was thinking of retiring a couple of tours down the line.’ John shrugged ‘Still that’s what you sign up for.’

Sherlock regarded him for a moment ‘You don’t talk like that often.’

John frowned again ‘Like what?’

‘Like a solider.’ Sherlock answered ‘Perhaps this place has rubbed off on you.’

John paused to refill their drinks. ‘I don’t miss it if that’s what you’re asking.’

Sherlock didn’t say anything, merely took a slow sip of his drink and stared at the wall.

‘I don’t Sherlock.’ John said more urgently.

Sherlock looked at him and nodded slowly, ‘Good.’ He said ‘Good.’

They looked at each other for a long moment before John nodded then looked to his side breaking their gaze. There was a sound of rustling and he produced the sandwiches and crisps he’d brought up along with the scotch.

‘Food!’ he declared gleefully glad of a change of subject and mindful of the alcohol kicking in on his empty stomach. ‘Sandwiches and crisps the result of two very guilty feeling landlords’

‘I assume that is where the whiskey came from also?’ Sherlock asked ‘It’s not bad either.’ He continued not waiting for an answer.

John busied himself unwrapping the plate of sandwiches, ‘I’m afraid it’s cheese or cheese, in various configurations’ he said sniffing them suspiciously, ‘Meat still only being fed to the dogs.’ 

He balanced the plate on the edge of the bed and took a sandwich, realising it had been over eight hours since he’d eaten anything  even the slightly suspicious looking cheese tasted amazing.

‘Sherlock eat.’ He said between mouthfuls

‘I’m fine.’

‘The case is finished and you haven’t eaten since yesterday evening. And that was only soup.  Eat.’ John insisted.

Sherlock wheeled his head to look at him furrowing his brow ‘You keep track of what I eat?’

‘Someone has to.’ John says taking another sandwich for himself and holding the tray out to Sherlock, who took one somewhat reluctantly.

‘If you insist.’ Sherlock said but there was a hint of a smirk chasing at the corners of his mouth.

John nodded satisfied, opening a packet of crisps as Sherlock began to pick at his sandwich. John watched him out of the corner of his eye ensuring he did bother to eat the sandwich, after a while a hand reached over and took a second sandwich, then a handful of crisps. John smiled satisfied that Sherlock was suitably fed. It was sometimes like looking after a pet looking after Sherlock-feeding, exercising, entertaining.  John wrinkled his nose at the analogy thinking of the poor dog on the moors.

They were quiet again for a time Sherlock eating slowly and methodically, John having finished his own sandwich sipped the last of his drink. He stole a few glances across at Sherlock who once again appeared oblivious to his presence.

‘What did you see out there Sherlock?’ John asked at last.

Sherlock snapped to attention at his name. ‘Doesn’t matter.’ He said dismissively.

‘It does Sherlock.’ John insisted ‘I saw the hound because that’s what I thought I should see. You knew it wasn’t the hound and still you… I mean I saw you…’

‘Just a reaction to the drug.’ Sherlock dismissed ‘We don’t know how it affects individual minds. Natural that a superior mind would see something other than what the masses did.’

John ignored the ‘superior mind comment’ and interjected ‘But you knew it wasn’t a hound, that there wasn’t a hound. So what did you see?’

‘ Just jumped at shadows that’s all. The effects will wear off.’  Sherlock wasn’t even convincing himself, supressing a shudder as the vision of Moriarty’s face returned. Still sharing the detail wouldn’t achieve anything; it wasn’t real simply a figment of his imagination, playing on his insecurities. Stop, he scolded himself, it isn’t time, not yet.

‘That may be, but it still feels real enough when you’re seeing it.’ John declared, Sherlock huffed in response ‘Well I should know!’ he protested his voice a little louder than he intended. ‘Sorry.’ He muttered ‘But if you won’t tell me, what can I do?’

‘Nothing to be done John.’ Sherlock said darkly looking again into his drink wondering if it might actually provide answers or at least a haze with which to block out a few things once more. Sherlock chastised himself for seeking chemical release, he’d told himself he was past all that. Still a little more couldn’t hurt he decided reaching over for the bottle.

‘Sherlock.’ John warned

‘Really John.’ Sherlock said a little softer ‘Nothing to be done.’

John considered Sherlock for a long moment, preoccupied more than a little strung out and exhausted, but John also knew better than to push. He stifled a yawn unsuccessfully; he glanced at his watch-just after one. ‘Shower and bed I think.’ He announced getting up ‘I need to wash some of the moor off me.’

Sherlock grunted in response leaning over and stealing the remainder of the crisps as John made his way into the small, and it had to be said overtly chintzy bathroom, but one he’d noted this morning that had an incredibly powerful shower. He emerged some time later suitably scrubbed clean of moor and really warm for the first time in hours.

‘Sher- ‘ he began still rubbing his hair dry and stopped. Sherlock was fast asleep face down and splayed out across the bed, he’d at least managed to change out of his suit before passing out but not quite managed to crawl under the duvet. John smiled and threw the floral blanket that covered the top of his bed over the sleeping Sherlock before climbing into his own bed and disappearing into a similar oblivion.

It wasn’t fluorescent rabbits that haunted Sherlock’s dreams that night but a face, the face he’d seen on the moor that now reared large as life in his dream. He woke with a start and clapped a hand over his mouth hoping to silence the shout he was sure escaped.  Drawing his knees up to his chest he tried to block out the images that danced behind his eyes.

John wasn’t sure what had woken him from a dream about rabbits invading Baker Street, he blinked awake in the darkness and listened, and assuming some other animal sound from outside was responsible. It wasn’t an animal noise it was one he was uncomfortably familiar with from his army days-the sound of someone trying to steady their breathing in the night, someone trying not to betray that they were afraid, John would know that sound anywhere.

He turned his head slowly, not wanting to betray he was awake yet, Sherlock was sat against the wall as he’d been earlier. Except now his knees were drawn tightly up to his chest, his arms wound around his knees head buried in his arms. John sat up slowly not wanting to alarm him further, he could see the sharp rise and fall of Sherlock’s back as he tried to calm his breathing.

‘Sherlock.’ John whispered softly, just loud enough to be heard.

Sherlock froze at the sound of John’s voice half hoping he’d imagined that also to spare himself having to explain this embarrassment, half of him hoped he hadn’t but that half wouldn’t admit readily to wanting the help John would offer but wouldn’t be able to give. Nothing could help him anymore, nothing. Involuntarily he gasped at the thought.

‘Sherlock.’ John said again, voice soft and patient. Sherlock didn’t move but sensed John’s movement around his own bed to Sherlock’s own. A hand soft on his arm, expected but still his muscles tensed, the hand tightened his grip. ‘It’s alright.’ John’s voice again, Sherlock wanted to shout that is wasn’t, it really wasn’t alright, but nothing other than another ragged intake of breath came out.

John’s weight settled on the bed next to him now, the hand left his arm and made its way to his back tracing two broad strokes up and down before settling on his shoulder blades.

‘It was just a dream Sherlock.’ John said evenly trying not to betray his concern in his tone, telling himself he was just comforting another frightened young private in the hospital, not the great Sherlock Holmes who was frightened of nothing. ‘I know, I know how real it seemed but it wasn’t. You’re just in our room.’

Sherlock exhaled finally gaining control and lifted his head slowly, even in the darkness the dampness across his eyes would be visible, quickly he swiped a hand across, knowing it wasn’t fast enough-that John would notice. To his credit he didn’t acknowledge it simply nodded assurance once more that Sherlock was ok, running the hand up and down Sherlock’s back once more. He didn’t know why the gesture should be so comforting but it was.  John rested his hand at the back of Sherlock’s neck this time and squeezed a little.

‘It’s alright.’ He repeated ‘what did you see Sherlock?’

‘Moriarty.’ The name escaped his lips before he could stop himself, John’s hand tightened reflexively on his neck and Sherlock felt his breathing grow shallow again at the memory. Quickly gaining control John shook his head and dropped the hand to Sherlock’s knee.

‘It wasn’t real.’ He repeated.

‘Not yet.’ Sherlock said and bit his lip in surprise, something about the hour and perhaps the residual chemical imbalance of the drug and the dream were breaking down the barriers he’d normally have in place.

‘Sherlock?’ John’s tone was worried now, but also demanding-implied was the command to tell him if there was something he needed to know.

Sherlock swallowed, he could tell John without telling him everything, ‘He said he’d be back.’ He explained.

John let out a breath, ‘But not right now.’ He said ‘Jesus Sherlock I thought there was something you knew then.’ He patted Sherlock’s knee and stood up. ‘He’s not here in this room tonight, it’s just the drug, and the moor and probably those bloody cheese sandwiches talking.’

Sherlock forced a chuckle at that, trying to appease John, who got up and walked back to his side of the room. Sherlock didn’t turn around, trying to fully calm his racing heart before lying down, when a jolt sent him off balance and turning in surprise. In the darkness John was shoving his bed the four or five inches to connect with Sherlock’s own.

‘John?’

‘Don’t argue.’ He began ‘Close proximately of another body, it’ll keep you calm, and if you have another dream waking up next to another warm body will reassure you it was a dream more quickly.’ Though he couldn’t see in the dark Sherlock sensed John’s shrug ‘Don’t ask me why but it works.’  Sherlock opened his mouth to explain but John cut him off ‘Don’t bother to explain either.’ Sherlock felt the bed next to him sink as John got in. ‘Come on, sleep.’ He said his tone gentle again ‘I’ll be here.’

He sensed John fussing with duvets and pillows to his right and did the same finally sinking down, Sherlock did the same; surprised to find when he did he could feel the warmth of John’s body. He tensed slightly, unused to the sensation of another so close to him as he slept. Slowly though he began to feel the tension leave his body, still not quite asleep he shifted a little closer to John, that seemed to improve things slightly and he settled in. Minutes later he found his mind wandering, tension returning, working on the previous example he shifted a little closer, he was about to reason this was better when he felt hands around his arms and torso pulling him.

‘For goodness sake get here.’ John muttered sleepily pulling Sherlock until he was pressed chest to chest with him. Sherlock got the message quickly and after a few more moments of shifting and wrestling for pillow and duvet space they both established a position they could sleep in which enabled Sherlock to be touching as much of John as physically possible without lying on top of him. It seemed to work, within minutes they were both asleep and stayed that way until morning.

John awoke first to find Sherlock’s mass of hair pressed into the crook of his neck and one long leg slung unceremoniously over both of his. He shook his head and smiled patting the mass of hair gently before extracting himself gently. Sherlock muttered a little in his sleep but didn’t wake.

John dressed and packed his things quietly, once installed downstairs and waiting for his breakfast he sent a text.

‘Downstairs eating. Assumed you’d want to leave once up. J’

About half an hour later Sherlock emerged, he allowed John to finish his breakfast-with a couple more revelations about the events of the past days and his role in them-before he was bundling them towards the station.

Sherlock was quiet most of the way home, muttering occasionally at his phone about Mycroft and the Official Secrets Act. Once inside Baker Street John dumped his bag near the door and made for the kettle.

‘Tea?’ he shouted behind him, Sherlock made a noise John took for a yes and dragged out two moderately clean cups and left them by the kettle as it boiled. Returning to the living room he found Sherlock standing awkwardly in the middle of it. John threw him a questioning look, Sherlock answered with a nod striding across the room and pulling John into a tight hug. John, though confused saw nothing else to do but return the hug, returning Sherlock’s tight embrace. Eventually Sherlock released his hold and stepped back, holding John at arm’s length.

‘John.’ He said urgently ‘Whatever happens I need you to know I will never intentionally put you in harm’s way. Not real harm anyway.’ He felt the caveat was necessary after his earlier confession.

John furrowed his brow, ‘Yeah I know Sherlock.’ He said ‘You’re an idiot but I like to think you tend to keep me alive where possible.’

‘No really John.’ Sherlock insisted ‘I need you to know.’

‘Yeah, ok Sherlock.’ John said then casting his eyes down ‘I know alright?’

Sherlock nodded and pulled him into another tight hug before releasing him the second the kettle clicked off and bounding towards the kitchen, busying himself with the tea.  John blinked a few times and shook his head. 

‘Still never bored.’ He mused before sitting down and opening his laptop while Sherlock clattered around the kitchen making more noise than a simple cup of tea warranted. A loud exclamation of pain from the kitchen caused John to wearily push back his chair, ‘Never bored.’ He muttered again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Some of this comes from my strong feeling that Sherlock had been planning a lot of the events of Reichenbach for a while, at least in the vaguest sense of how he might defeat Moriarty. That in HoB he says 'Not yet' to his vision of Moriarty also leads me to think this. So this is me playing a bit with those ideas.   
> I also really like that Baskerville is the last moment of calm before the storm and that moment is where they quietly take stock before it all hits the fan...


End file.
